The Christmas Train (17 page)

“It is, and I’m glad to hear it.”

Misty said, “The stories I could tell of the faithless male species.” She glanced at the priest. “And I would tell them if you weren’t here.” She pinched Father Kelly’s cheeks, and he seemed delighted by the attention.

“I have to tell you,” the priest confessed to Steve and Julie, “I’ve never attended a wedding on a train before. I think it must be a first or something.”

“Actually, it’s not.”

They all looked across the aisle, where Herrick Higgins was eating his dinner.

“It’s happened before, back in 1987, on the Texas Eagle. That runs from Chicago to LA too, but by way of Texas. They called it the Love Train. Its route is actually longer than the Chief’s.”

“The Love Train?” said Julie. “Why did they call it that?”

Higgins swung his legs out into the aisle and sipped his coffee as he spoke.

“There was a legendary conductor on the Eagle by the name of Zeb Love. That man was something. He had a heart of gold and the showmanship of a world-class entertainer. Dressed up as Santa Claus for the kids, gave them gifts bought with his own money. He went into schools to promote train travel and was probably one of the best natural spokesmen Amtrak ever had. His specialty, though, was making people happy while they were on the train. He encouraged people to talk to each other, find out what made their fellow humans tick. Charles Kuralt even did a piece on Zeb. Well, on July 4, 1987, on the Texas Eagle, a couple got married and Zeb Love was right there in the middle of it. He even went celebrating with the wedding party when they got to Fort Worth. Zeb was a special one, all right.”

“Well,” said Julie, “I hope our wedding is half as nice.”

“Oh, it will be,” said Higgins. “Roxanne Jordan, I understand, is taking charge of the musical entertainment. With that woman involved, good things will happen. Trust me.”

Up in the Pacific Northwest a significant meteorological event was taking place. Competing highs and lows, butting cold and warm fronts, soaring moisture content from off the coast, and upper-level winds that were increasing to enormous speeds were all mixing and spinning and beginning to move in an easterly direction. A similar confluence of weather elements had formed in nearly the same place during one of Mark Twain’s trips across the Nevada Territory over 140 years before. The result had been a rip-roaring icy flood and then a blizzard the likes of which most folks had never encountered even in those wild frontier climates. If the story was to be believed—and, in that regard, one was always on dangerous ground with Mr. Twain—the episode very nearly cost the esteemed author his life.

Though still largely undetected by the national weather forecasters, the current storm turned in a southern direction when it slammed into the hard wall of the northern Rockies and slid down the spine of that mountain range like a water leak following an electrical line inside a house. Though no one could yet determine where the forming storm would hit with all its ferocious winter power, its destination seemed to lie right along the path of the Southwest Chief, and at a very interesting spot. It was a very remote, foreboding place in southeastern Colorado, called the Raton Pass, the highest elevation on the entire Southwest Chief route and the toughest passenger-rail grade in the country. Not easy for a train to climb on good weather days, it would tax the Southwest Chief almost to its limit when the weather turned really bad.

Later that night the person in black was once more making the rounds of the sleeper cars. Even more cautious this time because of the heightened state of alertness, the person made absolutely sure no one was around. The thief’s efforts were aided by the fact that many people were either eating dinner or attending a very special event in the lounge car. Indeed, people were presently being wildly entertained on the Southwest Chief, and such people were in no position to safeguard their valuables. The thief mouthed a silent “thank you” and went about the larcenous business of robbing fellow passengers. chapter twenty

The lounge car was indeed rocking, and the vibrations had nothing to do with the sections of bad track that the Chief had to race over every day. Roxanne was in the middle of the car, with a hand-held microphone—not that the woman needed any such amplifier to be heard—and was belting out song after song, each more powerful, more viscerally emotional than its predecessor. In the packed car each person’s gaze was directly on the woman, absorbing every note pouring forth. The LA Boys’ Center Choir, too, had stayed up a little late and was listening with rapt attention to a true artiste who sang only for the love of it. These young men could not have received a better lesson in life than watching and hearing Roxanne Jordan perform while rolling over the rails.

Tom was in a far corner of the lounge, humming along to the tunes Roxanne was singing. After the show was over, the passengers gave her a standing ovation, and then people hung around discussing in great, noisy detail all that they’d just seen and heard.

Down in the smoker lounge, Max and Misty were enjoying cigars purchased in Chicago, and Misty was reading the palms of all who wanted their fortunes told. Since it was the Christmas season, she kept her predictions very upbeat, finding in the lines of each extended palm the potential of holiday miracles.

Back in her compartment, Eleanor was making some notes about potential script plots, but she was struggling to concentrate. The process was different this time. She was used to taking other people’s work and tinkering with it, not creating her own material from scratch. She kept doodling on her pad, until she realized she was spelling “Tom Langdon” in fat, three-dimensional letters. She ripped up the paper and threw it away, then lay back with her hand over her face.

“Troubles?”

Eleanor looked at the doorway, where Roxanne was standing and staring at her. She was dabbing the sweat from her face with a wet washcloth after her prodigious entertainment efforts.

Eleanor sat up. “Just a little frustrated, I guess.”

“Well, you missed a fine show in the lounge car, if I do say so myself.”

“Actually I heard it. They piped it in over the PA. You were terrific. The best I’ve heard.” Roxanne glanced at the floor, which was littered with balled-up paper.

“How’s the train story coming? We could use a blockbuster Max Powers movie about trains to get the country and the government excited about us again.”

Eleanor gave an embarrassed smile. “Well, I have to admit, I don’t know all that much about trains. I haven’t taken one since I was in college, at least not in this country. And I’m not sure a few days riding the rails will educate me enough to do the thing justice.”

Roxanne perched on the edge of the couch bed.

“Well, I’ve been working these trains longer than most, and I still don’t know it all. I guess that’s why I like my job so much: something new every day. Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes it’s not so good, but it keeps me hopping and using my head, and that’s a good thing.”

“How long have you worked this train?”

“Oh, me and the Chief have been courting now going on twenty-one years. Up, back, up, back. Know every bit of sagebrush in New Mexico, every wheatfield in Kansas, even know some of the farmers by their first name. Wave to ’em when we go by. I could drive the train with my eyes closed, only Amtrak frowns on that sort of thing.”

Eleanor pulled out a fresh piece of paper and made some notes. “I bet the farmers wave back.”

“Girl, I’ve gotten three marriage proposals in the last two years. One gent tied a banner to his John Deere and raced the train. It said, ‘Will You Marry Me, Roxanne?’”

“That’s pretty creative. It’s nice to be popular.”

“Oh yeah, farmers like their women with some meat on ’em, and I fit that bill.” She stood up. “If you’re having trouble coming up with ideas, why don’t you come with me to make my rounds? I guarantee it’ll stimulate your creative juices.”

After Roxanne’s show had ended and the boys’ choir had returned to their quarters in coach, Father Kelly came into the lounge and started chatting with Tom. Max and Kristobal joined them. It turned out the priest and the director had much in common.

“I wanted to be a priest,” said Max. “Well, more accurately, my mother wanted me to be a priest. Even joined the seminary, but it didn’t stick. I wasn’t wired for it. And I liked women too much. Forgive me, Padre, but it’s true. It was actually an easy decision. Yet if I’d taken the vows, it would have saved me millions in alimony.”

Tom said, “I briefly considered the priesthood myself.” He looked at Kristobal. “You ever think about being a priest?”

“Oh, sure, doesn’t every Jew?”

Tom mouthed a “sorry” to the man and took a swallow of his drink.

“Well, I’m a confirmed film buff,” said Father Kelly. “And I truly appreciate your talent, Max. I’ve seen all the classics and I thought moviemaking would be an exciting way to spend one’s time, but then I received this very strong calling, and my hands became tied in the matter, so to speak. Though don’t believe for a second that priests don’t admire a pretty girl. It just takes a back seat to a higher power.”

Just then Agnes Joe came in and joined them. She was dressed in holiday colors that actually rode well on her challenging frame. They’d all finished their drinks, and Agnes Joe offered to take away the empties and bring them new ones. She came back a few minutes later with fresh refills for everyone. The men reached in their pockets to reimburse her, but she shook her head. “My treat. Consider it an early Christmas present.”

Father Kelly said, “Bless you for taking such good care of us.”

Tom watched as Herrick Higgins, a couple of chairs over, stared out into the night. The man seemed deeply preoccupied.

Tom called out, “I’m taking your word, Herrick, that sleep will come easier tonight.”

The older man smiled. “It will. The Chief is the fastest train to the West Coast, the only one that maintains the level of track speed you find in the east. Just under forty hours to LA, about ten less than the other western trains.”

Kristobal blanched. “Forty hours! Gee, a virtual bullet. I could almost fly to Australia and back, twice , in that time.” He finished his comments with a hearty, “Chooo-chooo!”

Higgins smiled good-naturedly. “Well, bullet trains would be nice out here. Flatland is good for it, but you got some tricky grades too. And the government would never fund that. Most other major countries have seen the benefit of high-speed rail corridors. However, one needs vision to see the payoff from such an undertaking, and ‘vision’ isn’t something our leaders associate with train travel.” He pointed out the window. “Now, the Chief follows the old Santa Fe for the most part. Takes you through some rugged country. Dodge City. That’s where they based the TV series Gunsmoke , you know.”

“ Gun-what?” asked Kristobal.

“I guess you’re too young to remember that,” said Higgins.

“I guess so.”

“We go through some high places, 7,600 feet high at Raton Pass, a little less than that at Glorieta Pass, and then we descend into Apache Canyon, but that’s after we get through Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas!” exclaimed Father Kelly. “I didn’t know this train went to Las Vegas. Does it stop long enough for people to get off?” He looked around. “Well, not that I’m really into gambling or anything, but I do occasionally like to have a go at the slots.”

“It’s not that Las Vegas, Father,” explained Higgins. “It’s Las Vegas, New Mexico . It’s the stop right after Raton. And not a neon tube or gaming table in sight.”

Father Kelly looked very disappointed. “Ah well, some things are just not meant to be, I suppose.”

“Well, Padre,” said Max, “I’ll do you one better. We’re having a wedding on this train tomorrow, and there’s a young bachelor on this train who needs a bachelor’s party, and I intend to provide it and you’re all invited. In fact, attendance is mandatory.”

“Well,” said Father Kelly, “that sounds very nice. I’m assuming libations will be served?”

Max winked. “Padre, my whole compartment is a libation.” He told them the time for the party.

Tom rose. “I’ll be there,” he said.

Max glanced at him. “You want to start now, feel free. Maybe we can sit and talk for a bit.”

“No, I think I’ll go for a stroll.”

“On a train?” exclaimed Kristobal. “What’s there to see?”

“You’d be surprised,” replied Tom as he walked out.

Tom moved down the corridor. The lounge car was still full, the dining car was serving its last meal of the day, people were in a festive, friendly mood, and thus many of the sleeper compartments were empty. It was a perfect time for a thief to strike again, and Tom wanted to see if the crook on the Capitol Limited had managed to hook a ride on the Southwest Chief. He also wanted to check out one sleeper in particular.

He knocked, and when he received no answer he poked his head inside Agnes Joe’s compartment. Fortunately for him, the door couldn’t be locked from the outside. It was empty. The phonograph was set up on the fold-down desk, as it had been on the Cap. The place was neat and tidy, with few personal possessions laid out. There were two pillows fluffed up and leaning against the wall at the head of the couch, and a blanket was neatly folded there. Two suitcases were against one wall. Tom didn’t bother with those. He was more interested in the duffel bag that was wedged between the wall and chair, just as it had been on the Cap. And a blanket was also covering it.